I was in the shower one evening before Lena’s bedtime, just after Kay’s death. One of the two rooms we were renting off the lobby—the room that used to be Burke and Gabe’s—had a shower curtain in its small bathroom that Lena had pointed out right away. Where our old curtain had borne a pattern of blue flowers, this one had golden sheaves of wheat repeating on a background of creamy white.
I remember noticing, as I stood there letting the water drum down onto my shoulders, the cleanness and freshness of this new shower curtain with its sheaves of wheat. I noticed the sparkling-white quality of the small tiles on the shower walls, how they contrasted with the worn and grimy tiles of our previous motel-room shower stall, frankly a sorry bathroom feature. We were living the high life now, I recall saying to myself.
I washed my hair with plenty of shampoo. I saw no need to rush, since Lena was safe in the room next door with Will, reading to him from her bedtime books. I’d just rinsed out the lather and was looking around for my razor—had I left it on the sink counter?—when I felt a scratch at my ankle and glanced down to see a thin trickle of blood. What had cut me? I must have rubbed my other foot across the ankle—my big toe, on the other foot, had a freakishly long toenail.
Unattractive. I didn’t like it. How had it gotten so long without me noticing? I felt embarrassed, despite being alone. I’d clip it right now, as soon as I shaved my legs and stepped out and toweled off.
But wait, the other toenails were long too—they all were, on both feet. They were almost obscene; they looked like a bird’s talons, like bird claws stuck onto a mammal. How could Will not have noticed, either? Maybe he’d been too polite to say anything. The front edges of the nails had to be nearly a centimeter long. Beyond disgusting.
I’ll get out right away and grab the clippers from the bag next to the sink, I thought. It was both strange and vile: my toenails had never been so long in my life. Must be because it’s winter, I told myself, you wear thick socks all the time, even to bed usually, hating to have cold feet—that must be how you missed it. I was about to turn off the water when I caught sight of my ankles, my calves. The hairs on them were as long as the toenails, practically. Jesus, I thought. How could that have happened?
My gaze hit the wall tiles. I’d thought they were so clean, but now I saw some of the caulked cracks between them contained lines of mildew. I’d get the maids in here first thing tomorrow, I’d get down on my own hands and knees . . . wait. My fingernails were almost as long as the toes. Hard to believe I hadn’t cut up my scalp with them while I was lathering. My gaze flicked back to the wall tiles and I saw a line of mildew was creeping up the grout.
It was visibly extending itself before my eyes, indeed all over the white surface of miniature tiles on the shower wall mildew was creeping along the lines of caulking. In a grid of right angles a black mold was spiking out farther and farther along the network of tiles, straight angles in every direction.
“What is this,” I said, “what is this,” and tore the curtain back without even turning the water off. Wait—the water had flooded, the floor was soaked, and everything was damp. A lightbulb flickered above the vanity. In passing I noticed the tub was full, backed up, the water a sludgy gray, and a rim of scum ran around the tub over the waterline. I panicked, throwing a towel around my middle, tying it over my chest—it too smelled stale, possibly moldy. I pulled the door open and ran out into the room: there were Will and Lena reading on the bed, pillows propped behind them, with a picture book open across their laps.
Relief: she was there. She was safe.
But all around us the room seemed to be changing, though I couldn’t put my finger on it at first.
“Goodnight, little house. Goodnight, mouse,” read Lena. Her voice was muffled.
“Goodnight, comb. Goodnight, brush,” read Will. His voice, too, sounded like it was coming through a barrier.
They looked relaxed, as I’d left them, but around the bed they lay on other features shifted and altered. The desk lamp turned off and on rapidly, at irregular intervals; dust piled on surfaces and then seemed to go away, as though either blown or wiped; an object vanished and reappeared somewhere else, a toy on the round table, a glass. They didn’t take notice. Through a chink in the drapes I saw flashes of light outside. But it was night, and there shouldn’t have been light on that ocean side—so I ran past the foot of the bed to pull the drapes open where the big picture window looked over the cliffs and sea.
And I saw it was day. But then it was night, again, night in the sky and rapidly back to day. Boats appeared on the surface of the water, both far and nearer, then disappeared in an eye-blink, only to reappear elsewhere; the sky switched from morning to midday to evening to night within the space of seconds, and then did it again—this time with different cloud formations, other ships.